


Short vents that slightly resemble poetry

by Kiffie



Category: Original Work
Genre: vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25924195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiffie/pseuds/Kiffie
Summary: The title, basically.
Kudos: 2





	1. Number one: No one else matters

Look at me. 

I need this to mean something to me.  
  
**Me me me**

Egomania?

I’m bored,

Where did everything go? Time is slipping through my fingers.

I don’t see it, mom.


	2. Number two: I shouldn’t be this bitter

They laugh because of the irony. 

For the fact they are going to die soon.  


Their life so constricting rules started to blur.

So they want to life another life.

Hopefully this works.


	3. Number three: Rushed thoughts

If there’s a god, I hope they hate us.

Because I don’t see why any of us deserve heaven.

Yet I still long for paradise after pain.


	4. Chapter four: I’m starting to like them/the old note

I used to hate myself so much, but I’ve realized that maybe I’m not so bad. And that’s hard for me to say because I’m terrified of being seen as egotistical. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the person I hate most in this world.  
But like most things, I’ve just accepted it and admitted not everything about me is disgusting.

It doesn’t really matter since I’ve lost my will to stay. 

It’s kind of ironic that the moment I’ve lost hope I feel more alive than I’ve ever had.

.

There’s no straw that broke the camels back. I just thought about it and decided that it didn’t matter. Nothing matters.  
But I’ll spare you my thought process since it’s not important.

I’m not sorry. 

I’m bitter, because the person this life has made me never asked to be born.

It doesn’t matter what happens after this, because I won’t be there. 

I might see you again, but I hope I don’t. I just want to be at peace in an endless void of nothing. No after life. Just me.

I think I do love you, though it’s hard to tell. The only thing I’m mad about is life, so no one is guilty here. 

Goodbye.


	5. Number five: Somebody I used to know, somebody I used to be.

Everything good ends  
I’m not a good thing  
But I will too

Everything ends.


	6. Number six: Distortion of flashing lights

One day, time slowed.  
Time slowed and I grew paranoid.  
What’s a human to do with so much time?  
I feel like I’m being judged for not knowing.  
Maybe they’re laughing and calling me names.

Or not, because time starts going faster.

My bloodshot eyes wearily observe my living room.  
There’s seemingly nothing wrong; the television is off and the blinds are drawn.  
Still, somethings off.  
Are they still watching, perhaps?  
Do they get some sort of sadistic glee from seeing me like this?  
I shakily walk to my bedroom, maybe the sleep deprivation is getting to me, I think.

I wake up with a start,   
where am I?  
I look around and barely recognize the brightly colored room I’m faced with.  
It’s mine, isn’t it?  
There’s an ache in my fingers and I slowly turn my head to where they’re resting in my lap.  
I’m greeted with a bloody stumps and missing nails.  
Numbly I stare down until I feel my eyes start to dry up.  
They’re laughing at me now, certainly.

Days go by while night and day blur together.  
My fingers aren’t healing and the ache remains, ever so slowly spreading.  
I feel like years fly by when I blink.  
Maybe the sleep deprivation is getting to me, I think.  
~Why does that sound so familiar?~

The ache is in my head now.  
Slowly it gorges itself on the memories.

.

The ache is gone.  
All I remember is that it was there, but not why.

There’s seemingly nothing wrong; the television is off and the blinds are drawn.  
Still, somethings off.

That day, time slowed.


	7. Number seven: What it truly means, I will never know.

Perhaps, they could’ve been worried. But that was their price to pay, for happiness. Not even an all encompassing happiness, just the happiness of self.

They don’t want to hate themselves, but they want to care about something other than their own being. They’re perfect, and none of their problems are their ghosts fault. They are the best, to them. 

That’s good, but also bad. They shouldn’t be this selfish.

But if it’s my life, all that matters is me, right? So I can be as selfish as I want, right? I guess it doesn’t matter what you think, because I’m allowed to have my own morals, opinions and outlook on life.

Yet they would never let me go if they knew.

Hah, if only they knew. Then they would love me even less, they’d hate me. I am a direct contradiction to their views, how did I turn out this way?

I am tired again, the pain is back. 

Yet I don’t care.


	8. Number eight: It’s so much more than that

I’m afraid.  
So utterly and completely afraid.

That you’ll never be with me, and I’ll never be able to reach.  
I don’t even know if you would like me, to be honest.  
Because you’re just so you and I’m just... me.

Maybe I should stop seeking for identity in others, and I wouldn’t be so afraid.


	9. Number nine: ‘spice to my drink’

More, because I can’t sleep.

What’s next? What’s next?  
The next step would be this,

Would it be? Can I be here and there?

but I am a coward.

Lucky you, you’re inspired!   
(Am I inspired? Or am I alone?)

Am I lonely or do I already have company?

I ask to many questions because I never know the answer.   
That’s not true, though.  
I only know the answer when no one’s asking.

Boring boring words,


	10. Number ten: common sense newly discovered

I had a sad realization recently.

My death will never be about me.

I am simply star dust with a conscious,  
when I die,  
that conscious will be lost.

What happens after its gone doesn’t matter,   
because eventually all the stardust that knew me as a conscious will go too. 

If I die,   
because it still needs to be proven I will,  
people will mourn me.  
They want me to be with them because me not being with them makes them sad.  
Keeping me here with drugs and therapy, do they even care about what I want?  
It’s my choice in the end.

And even then.  
My funeral won’t be about me.  
But about how sad they are.  
A funeral, if anything, should be a celebration of a life and not a mourning of a loss.


	11. Number eleven: haven’t we been here before, in the future?

In a way, I’m lucky.  
Privileged.

But as I lay here slowly rotting in my own acedia, I feel a longing for a harder life.

Maybe, if I had something to work for.  
Maybe, if I was distracted enough.  
Then maybe, this could’ve been great.

Maybe, I, could’ve been great.


	12. Number twelve: Meaning, what?

Everyone knows them, yet only a few know them well.

You can find them in the bathroom everyday at 8:15 o’clock, when there’s no one else there yet.

You can hear them every time they walk the stairs, their joints creaking those first few steps.

You’ve probably seen them walk past you, a familiar face in the crowd, yet you never learn their name.  
They probably wouldn’t tell you either, though.


	13. Number thirteen: It’s not bad luck, simply chaos. All is fair, all is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry is a weird thing, really.  
> I just had a discovery of sorts, because god knows I can’t get enough of that good ol’ introspection, that maybe I could start writing poetry without directly trying to make my feelings clear. Because I feel like maybe some stories can be told to construct a certain feeling, one that I couldn’t describe by, well, trying to describe it. Or, in other words, maybe I don’t need to directly put my feelings into words if I can just write something with the same vibe attached to it (but unrelated).
> 
> Does that make any sense? I don’t think so but it’s... whatever I guess. No one reads these anyway.

There’s a distinct difference between looking and truly seeing.  
I would know, trust me, my own eyes often betray me.  
(They gaze but they don’t see. They see colors but not shapes.)


	14. Number fourteen: Old conclusions

I failed at being me.  
Because no one ever wanted me.  
I’m fine with that, I can change.

They cannot.


	15. Number fifteen: I ask. They answer. I do not listen.

It’s funny how much I want this.  
And yet, I don’t try to reach.  
There’s so much more that can (easily) be done, yet I don’t.  
I want this so bad it physically hurts.  
I want this so bad I would do anything.  
Anything, except help myself.  
And that’s exactly what I need.


	16. Number sixteen: Tell me

Maybe writing this will only help make me feel worse, but I’m going to try.

I’m mad.  
Disappointed?  
Somewhere in between.

Why is it that every time I tell you I’m in pain, you never help me? I ask you for support and you move on with your day, my parent. Both of you. 

Do you treat my brother like this too? I wonder. Or is will it always be him over me. Because I was supposed to be easy, as you tried my whole life to convince me. 

I don’t like you, is the point. I know that isn’t entirely your fault, my lack of empathy is. I know that I should love you, and I think I do, in a way? But not the way you do me, or think I do you. You’re just... not that important to me. 

You should’ve noticed, and if you did, you should’ve acted. It feels like you’re so caught up in reality you can’t see what’s abstract, you know? Illogicality. 

I’m not in good health.  
I’ll die like this.  
And it’s your fault.  
Partly.

I don’t dislike who I am, mind. I just wonder, yearn, for what could’ve been if I had been helped, you had helped. Saw me. See me. I wish you’d gotten to know me. 

I can’t do this

don’t tell me I can

again


	17. Number seventeen: home

I just wanna be happy, you know?  
And I try in my own way, jumping from obsession to obsession, but it doesn’t really help.   
I don’t know what it’s like, I’ve never really felt that contentment or happiness in life. And I’m not saying that’s what I expected from this, but I’m tired.  
Tired isn’t the right word but neither is any other I know of.  
I’m longing to be... something. It’s not this body, not this mind. But it’s so unapologetically me. Not being there, that, exhausts me in a way so indescribable.

I just  
I wish things could’ve been different


	18. Number eighteen: Push the panic button

“Home?”

Its not a place, I say.

Is it me?  
Is it the concept of owning safety.

I don’t know.

“This is it?”

Is it?, I say.

It doesn’t feel like it yet,   
I don’t think it’ll ever be.

“Wounded?”

I’m not sure, I say.

It has been like this for a while, I explain.  
I don’t know if it is, but there’s a possibility.

I don’t want it to be though.


	19. Number nineteen: Love, or something? It isn’t consistent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some oneliners that have been rotting in my notes

Will you be there when I wake up?

Why does this feel like goodbye

I only exist when you look at me

I never deserved this.

How can you be my friend and not know how much this means to me?


	20. Number twenty: Don’t make me look at this again

I can feel you preparing me for disappointment. 

**That means you’ve already given up.**

Does it? Things, feelings, normally don’t change this fast.

**You gave in.**

Did I? I still want it. I’m skeptical, though.

**You don’t believe me?**

That’s a statement. I want to believe you. Having this would mean more to me then anything.

**Can you believe?**

I can try.

**Always so uncertain.**

Always.

  
  


**Is this it?**

_I suppose so._


	21. Number 21: something I wrote for a friend, not that good or accurate but it’s something

There’s always this itch, making me feel restless. Sometimes it’s tolerable, other times I lay awake wanting to rip my skin off in such an excruciating way the itch doesn’t dare come back.

I think other people can see, that godforsaken itch, and the more I try to look natural the more my hands ache to _touch_. They can see my balled fists, my quick breaths, my stiff movements and clumsy behavior, and all I can think of is how much they must hate it. Always wanting to put me in a box in their mind, to ask themselves what I am. Maybe to scratch their own itch, maybe just because they like to judge, I don’t know, I think I’m better off not knowing. 


End file.
